


The Wish of the Wild

by aestivali



Category: The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Loneliness, Magical Realism, Playing on the Beach, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestivali/pseuds/aestivali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Miranda is with her father, she must bow to his wishes. But when she is alone, she can do as she pleases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wish of the Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etnoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etnoe/gifts).



Miranda tugged gently at the doll's arm, trying to bend it into the position she wanted. It was handmade, formed of grass and straw, folded and woven and tied. But she had found it easier to create than to manipulate it now - dry after many months, it resisted her encouraging fingers. She sighed. It was not the most compliant star of her make-believe adventures; it made pretending rather difficult.

After several more futile attempts to force cooperation, she huffed and laid the doll on the floor. No, this was no good - she would have to find something else to do. Miranda stood up, dusting off her dress. "Father, may I go out to play now?"

"Of course, my dear," he said, as if he never refused her anything. "But do not stay out too long."

"I will be back soon," she promised.

He turned a page in his book. "And do not let yourself get cold."

She pulled her threadbare shawl close about her. "I shan't."

"And do not go near Caliban," he added, sharply.

"No, father." She shuddered slightly. "I shall go down to the shore. He doesn't like it there - he says the sea winds whisper to him."

"Such nonsense," said Prospero, but there was something of a smile in his eyes.

Miranda did not say that she had heard the whispers too. "Of course, father. May I go now?"

"Yes, yes, go on," he urged, clearly concentrating on whatever he was reading. And Miranda ran before he could change his mind.

She darted outside and down the path, feet kicking up the dust, enjoying the sheer sensation of movement. The air, whipping past, was cool and clean in her lungs. She knew it would start to burn if she kept going, but she didn't slow, not yet - not until she reached the little stream.

It was trickling merrily today, and the sunlight flashed on the surface as it moved, highlighting where it caught the rocks. Miranda jumped onto the first of the stepping stones, then paused. It was so beautiful here: the leafy overhangs casting patterns on the ground below, as insects flitted through the space in between, all backed by the sound of bubbling water. Now and then she'd seen a kingfisher here, riotously blue, but today the jewel of the scene was a dragonfly. It hovered nearby, so close she could almost touch it. Cautiously, still breathing hard, she held out a hand towards it. But it ignored the gesture, remaining where it was for a few moments before shimmering away to another part of the stream.

Miranda wrinkled her nose and moved on. Skipping now, she made her way through an open field, letting her hands brush against the long grasses and the flowers that hid within them. This was where she'd found the body of her doll; she'd made a bracelet of flowers at the same time, and worn it for days, marvelling at the strange beauty of the blooms. Each of their petals was a different colour, like a rainbow sprung from the soil. Perhaps she would make another one tomorrow.

As she passed through, a beady-eyed magpie watched her from the fork of a tree. When she noticed, she stopped, and said, "Good afternoon, Mr Magpie. Where is your wife today?" It looked at her, tail twitching but wings still, and gave a single caw. The intensity of its gaze was rather unsettling, so she nodded cordially and went on her way. She was nearly at the cliffs now.

There were several paths down, some treacherous and winding, some smooth and sloping. The one she was heading for was an easy path - though she could appreciate a good climb, today she was eager to get to the beach. She could see it now, an expanse of pale sand dotted with dark rocks, and with a whoop she skittered down towards it.

At the bottom, she kicked off her shoes - the only pair she had - and laid them carefully on a rock. Then she skipped onto the sand, feeling it crunch under her feet, giggling as the tiny grains lodged between her toes. It itched, but she didn't mind. She took one deep breath, filling her chest with sharply salty air, then threw her arms wide and sprinted towards the waves.

Today the sea was calm, all warm blue swells and gentle foam, and perfect for playing in. As she darted into the shallows, it swooshed around her ankles, making a soft _ssshh_ that sounded almost like quiet laughter. She laughed in reply, and grabbed fistfuls of her ragged skirts, pulling them up so she could splash in the water without danger. She quickly made a game of jumping over the waves as they rushed in, and again as they slithered out. It was an easy game to win.

When she tired of that, she stopped and just stood there, looking down at the ebb and flow of the water. She could see little flecks of colour darting through it - green and gold and glinting - but when she bent down to get a closer look, they skittered away, as they always did. "Don't be shy, tiny fishes," she said, though she wasn't sure that's what they were. But they were already gone.

Miranda sighed, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. The wind was getting up a little. She moved back from the waves and instead wandered down the beach, parallel with the shore. Watching her feet as each step sank into the sand, she couldn't fail to notice the shells scattered about. They were beautiful, some pale, some brown, and in a multitude of shapes; sometimes she would collect them. But not today. She knew each of them was empty, and she wanted something - something _living_.

Instead, it was a loose frond of seaweed that caught her eye. Dark green and slimy-looking, its smooth surface was interrupted in many places by grotesque little bubbles, which looked fit to burst. Miranda happily picked it up and slung it round her shoulders, unbothered by either the texture or the smell. Like this, she felt as if she could be a witch, and wondered if Sycorax would have used these for spells. They had a strange, esoteric sense to them. But she suspected such things were not in her blood. Still, she kept it as she moved on.

Now she was approaching a large rocky patch, mostly flat except for a few indentations where water collected and formed rock pools. She clambered onto its smooth, hard surface and picked her way across to the nearest pool. There, she knelt down, leaning over it to see what hid within.

At first, it seemed devoid of life. She could see pebbles, and a number of empty shells, but nothing moving. But she stayed still and quiet, peering into its depths, and noticed shadows flickering here and there. One stone seemed to be wobbling, as if there was something moving underneath, and she watched the ripples with interest. They built and built, and she held her breath, waiting to see what emerged.

She was rewarded for her patience when a tiny crab appeared. "Hello, little friend," she whispered, bending down further to get a better look. "How are you today?"

The crab merely clicked its claws in response, then scuttled away.

"Enjoy your teaparty with the sea urchins," she said, as if she'd understood it.

Sighing, Miranda turned her attention back to the pool, but the water was still now. She reached out one hand to tap a finger into the water, causing ripples again. She watched them spread and fade, but she received no answer from within the pool.

Sitting back on her heels, she looked now at the way the sun glanced off the surface. In it she could see her own face reflected: pale and round, with windblown hair, and curious eyes looking back at herself. It was the only female face she knew. She was growing older now, and more womanly, but she had no idea what sort of woman she was becoming. What did she have to compare herself to, except the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea? And she was not a creature of this island, as they were. 

"Sycorax," she murmured, fingering her seaweed necklace, "did this island bow to your commands?" Miranda often wondered about the woman. She knew so little of her, except that she was dark Caliban's mother, but hers was the only other female name spoken in this place. Were they alike at all? Had she inherited any of the island's spirit, just by breathing its air as she grew?

A sudden fluttering of wings interrupted her reverie. She looked up to see a magpie sitting on the rocks, a stick protuding from its beak, and its eyes fixed upon her.

"Oh, hello," she said, keeping absolutely still. "Did your husband send you?" The bird cocked its head, first one way then the other. Then it opened its mouth to squawk, dropping the stick, and flew away again.

Miranda gazed after it, wishing she could call it back. The inhabitants of this place were so strange and wild; sometimes she felt like she wasn't one of them. Or, at least, that they did not consider her one of them. And yet...

She scrabbled over the rocks to where the magpie had dropped the stick. Its surface was smooth against her palm as she grasped it, and she held it up to inspect it. It looked like an ordinary stick, except that it came from an extraordinary place. The bark was nothing unusual, except that the grain seemed almost to have a pattern; the wood seemed natural, though weathered with age; the size was unremarkable, except it fitted perfectly in her hand. Like everything on this island, she could not work whether it was magic, or simply mundane. She rolled it over in her fingers, considering. Was it a gift, or merely a coincidence?

As she sat there, the wind began to get up again, the short gusts catching at her hair, and at the seaweed too. She looked down at it, flapping against her chest, then back at the stick. In an impulsive decision, she jumped to her feet, and skipped back onto the sand.

Holding the stick firmly in one hand, she bent down and began to draw a circle with it. Inside that, she drew further circles, and lines, and shapes - whatever she felt moved to do. She had no idea what this would be, but she did not stop to consider. Not until it was done, and she was stood in the centre, looking down at the strangeness that had poured out of her. Magic, or mundane? She had just done what she felt like. Miranda bit her lip, free hand idly playing over the seaweed she was still wearing. Well, if she was making this up, she might as well keep going.

She remembered earlier how she'd wondered if this seaweed could be used for casting spells, and now she slipped it from her neck. She held it for a moment, then crouched down to form it into a circle round her feet, working it into the pattern she'd already drawn. It seemed appropriate, somehow. When she inspected her work, it pleased her. But there was something missing.

With a flourish, she wiped a finger in the sand and marked her own forehead with the residue. Yes. Now she was anointed with the sign of the island, just as she had made her sign upon it. She gripped her stick - her wand - more tightly, and took a deep breath.

"Hear me, winds of the shore, the voice of this island," she called, extending her arms towards the sea. "I am Miranda, and I call to you."

The wind buffeting her neither gained nor lost intensity, seeming not to have heard her at all, until she heard her own name echoing back to her, so soft and quiet she almost thought she'd imagined it.

_Miranda Miranda Miranda._

"Miranda, yes," she said, more quietly. "That's who I am."

The wind flicked at her hair, dancing over her, around her, sending the dislodged sand at her feet spinning about its circle. The sensation was playful, almost affectionate.

"I have something to ask of you," she declared, drawing herself up.

 _Ask, ask,_ came the whisper, sounding as though spoken straight into the curl of her ear.

"I want..." And here she faltered, realising she had been borne this far only on a sense of - what? Loneliness? Insufficiency? Restriction? Now that she had to, she found she could not put it into words. It was something that permeated her whole being, yet did not make up her entire self, though she felt it all the time.

 _Ask for it,_ whooshed the wind, no judgement in its wispy tone.

Miranda swallowed, tried to collect her thoughts. "I want... freedom."

The wind was silent for some moments, though it continued to blow, delivering no hushed voice to her. Then came the reply, smaller than before and almost sad: _I cannot give what I do not have._

Miranda felt her stomach sink. "And you do not?" She didn't understand how that was possible.

 _Not I, not I,_ it said, offering no explanation.

She hesitated, rubbing her thumb over the grain of the wand. "Then - what can you give me?"

_Whatever the wind brings._

Miranda's face fell. "I don't know what that means," she said, gaze dropping to her feet. "I don't understand this at all. I just wanted to - to play - to belong."

 _Play, play!_ came a high-pitched hiss, and then the wind dropped to nothing.

Stood there, alone and cold, Miranda feared she'd made a mistake. To play? What was that to ask of the wilderness? Her honesty seemed ridiculous now that it was done. She looked at the stick in her hand, then dropped it to the ground. Clearly, she was no witch. She was not powerful like Sycorax. She was just a girl.

Chest feeling tight, Miranda turned to go. She swallowed, and wiped at her nose. Her eyes seemed a little clouded, and she blinked to clear them - that was why it took her a few seconds to notice the white shape. It was small, and airborn, and darting in an irregular fashion towards her. She squinted at it. Was that - a butterfly?

As it drew closer, she could see that it was. Her heart lifted a little at the sight. Its delicate wings were the colour of pale moonlight, a strange sight in the afternoon sun. She stepped out of the circle to move towards it, and it flitted in her direction as she gazed with awe. It was odd to see a butterfly on the beach, especially one so beautiful. It seemed almost... magical.

"Hello there," she whispered, hopefully.

And this time - unlike the dragonfly, the crab, and the birds - this time, gloriously, it did not flee from her. It came up to her instead, right up to her, fluttering about her head. And as its tiny wings beat at the air, an almost imperceptible noise, it seemed almost to carry the sound of words to her ear -

_Play, play!_

Miranda laughed, and chased after it.


End file.
